


In Patience Wrought

by ForAllLove



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bofur is the best, Commitment, Craic-Ship, Forging, I love you Bofur, Interracial Relationship, Interspecies, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Romance, Suffering for Love, Wedding Rings, almost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForAllLove/pseuds/ForAllLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur was a miner by trade, a craftsman by nature. He’d tunnelled by day and carved fantastical creatures by night. He could fashion anything imaginable from cloth and wood and little metal gears as deftly as he could hew through stone. But he’d never had the knack for forging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Patience Wrought

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by [Leaper182](http://archiveofourown.org/users/leaper182) to try to shrug off this funk. =)

Bofur was a miner by trade, a craftsman by nature. He’d tunnelled by day and carved fantastical creatures by night. He could fashion anything imaginable from cloth and wood and little metal gears as deftly as he could hew through stone. But he’d never had the knack for forging.

He nearly growled as his wee bit of metal bent out of shape again. He’d been at this for hours, with next to nothing to show for it. He ached from his struggle to balance power with precision. The thick protective clothing hampered his movements, and he was filthy and sweating. And all this for a little gold strip he couldn’t thin quite right.

No, he had no right to complain. Many dwarves, even Thorin King himself, had forged for a living. They’d suffered and starved as any dwarf had through the long years in exile. Besides, coal mining brought its fair share of grime, and even heat, though the mines Bofur had worked were most often cold, and he’d limped home more nights than not. The discomforts were nothing out of the ordinary; he was hardy stock. It was the _frustration_ that gnawed at him. Though his little project required only meagre skill, it was skill, nonetheless, that he did not possess. He’d wasted a shameful amount of gold working out how often to anneal — not that he couldn’t afford it now, but it was a pity all the same. Now that he’d learnt the look and feel of the metal, all that remained was to tap it into an even, delicate rope that he could knot by hand. He took a few moments to breathe, to square himself and remember why he’d begun this project in the first place. There was no hurry. He couldn’t rush the perfection he desired. He shook out his shoulders and hefted the little hammer again.

With the gentle, steady touch he used for carving, Bofur finally smoothed the gold into one dainty strand. It was still soft enough that, when he’d laid aside his gloves, he could bend it easily. He twisted the gold back and forth, threading it through itself in the knotwork he’d designed until it was tripled and taut. He shaped the braid with the tools the smiths had lent him, clipped off the excess, and carefully, so carefully now that the worst was behind him, joined the ends together to form three continuous strands. Quenched one final time, his ring was as fine a little thing as he could have wished and ready for polishing.

It might have been hours later when Bofur slipped the gleaming ring onto his smallest finger as far as it would go, for safekeeping, and stripped off his outer layers. His clothes had dried down to his last tunic and felt quite stiff; the strands of hair that had escaped from the two braids he’d plaited down his back, to keep them clear of the fire, stuck to his brow and cheeks; his moustache had lost its curl, drooping limp and sorrowful around his mouth. But he was smiling, undaunted by his dishabille as he marched through the halls of Erebor to his quest’s end, in a quiet room with a rug and books and supper, and his dearest treasure on this Middle-earth.

“...Bilbo?”

**Author's Note:**

> Filthy Bofurs toiling for you... Lucky, lucky little hobbit. <3


End file.
